


Flawed Enough, But Perfect

by subversivegrrl



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Caryl, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subversivegrrl/pseuds/subversivegrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two damaged people, gravitating together.</p><p>Written for Nine Lives' Summer 2015 AU Prompt-a-Thon. I was inspired by another author to combine two prompts from the list we had to pick from:<br/>* "That one jerk customer who always comes in 5 minutes before the store is about to close", and<br/>* "Person A’s band plays a gig and Person B is drunk as hell dancing in front of the stage.”<br/>This was the result. As nearly always happens when I get my hands (and brain) on a prompt, this... went places. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. </p><p>Warning for sexual assault (in one place implied, in another described briefly) - I will put additional warnings on the two chapters in question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a quarter ‘til eleven, more than an hour since she last saw a customer, and Carol’s aching for those last fifteen minutes to vanish, like a raindrop on the sizzling Atlanta blacktop, to _poof_ just disappear and free her. She’s been on the go since five a.m., and she’s not sure what’s worse, the greasy-gritty feel of her skin or the prospect of enduring the tiny, dingy restroom in the back just for the sake of splashing some water on her face. The siren lure of the donut case has been calling since sometime around 8:00, even stale as they must be by now, and the only thing helping her resist is the thought of how little she can afford to replace her clothes with a larger size. It’s tough enough to keep up with Sophia’s growing frame, even though the thrift and consignment stores provide a fair selection. God help them both when her baby reaches the age where labels and style become paramount. For now, though, she makes do with her scant wages. It’s not the job she’d choose if she could afford to be picky, but it’s the job she has. 

Every night as it gets close to eleven she nearly relaxes, thinking, _maybe for once he’s found something better to do_ , something less _unnerving_ than skulking in the far aisle with the cereal and the canned goods and peeking at her in the security mirror in the corner-- But every single night for the past month, at the last possible moment, there he is: this scruffy, shaggy-haired, blue collar type, with ridiculously broad shoulders and an apparent problem with self-expression.

Some nights she’s been tempted to lock the door a few minutes early, to make an unspoken point about _closing time_ , but the fact is, every bit of additional money in the till makes a difference, and she owes her boss. Not many people would take a chance on a woman with a kid, a freshly-earned GED, and zero work history. 

Ravi has made sure she knows about the panic button and trusts that she’s level-headed enough not to push it every time someone makes her vaguely uncomfortable. This guy, though - it’s not so much that he sets off her creepy stalker instinct, it’s just weird, but he’s never done more than lurk, and look, and by this point confronting him (for what, even?) would just make her feel like an idiot. He’s never even tried to engage her in conversation, let alone done anything inappropriate. Most evenings after ten minutes or so he makes his way up to the register, mutters _packa marburah reds_ , hands over his money and slinks out the door, leaving her to lock up behind him and race through cash-out so she can get home before Teddy falls asleep on the couch. (Teddy never raises a word of complaint when she has to wake him up so she can collect her girl and climb the stairs to their apartment, but she feels awful about it nonetheless.) 

The shop bell rings at 10:55 p.m. The man gives new meaning to the phrase "like clockwork."

Given his odd behavior she should feel more wary of him than she does, but she doesn’t get any kind of spooky vibe from him, other than a sort of prickly, unsettled feeling when he’s watching her. He just strikes her as someone who is terrible at talking to other people, and that’s sort of sad. He’s not a bad-looking guy, either, despite a kind of hang-dog look to him, like he expects to be kicked. 

It’s the look she used to see in the mirror, so it’s familiar. A strange connection. Oh, who knows, she should probably take the whole situation more seriously, but at the moment, she hasn’t the energy to spare to analyze it more deeply. 

She glances up as she makes a prominent point of taking off her uniform smock, and a little shiver runs through her as she meets his eyes in the mirror. _What’s your story, Mr. Stalker?_

* * * * *

  
Daryl yanks on the door to slam it behind him as he goes, and spits in disgust as the hydraulic closer reduces his fury to a slow, mechanical sigh. Four weeks, twenty-some opportunities to just say _hi, what’s your name?_ and he hasn’t even managed to drag out a single syllable. He’s pathetic.

Merle’s mocking laugh rings in his ears as he strips the cellophane off the fresh pack of smokes. _You quite the stud, there, little brother. She practically droppin’ her panties for ya._

"Shut th’ fuck up, Merle,” he mumbles, even though he’s only talking to himself. 

He’s never been good with new people. Maybe because hardly anyone’s ever wanted to get to know him, stepping past him like he’s invisible to soak up the reflected glow from his manic brother. Magic Merle Dixon, master of the tremolo, "larger than life and twice as sexy," as the man himself always put it. 

He had thought it would get easier now that Merle’s gone, but it’s worse. At least when there was Merle’s gravitational pull to attract people there might be someone on the periphery, just like him, someone who didn’t exactly belong, and maybe he’d have himself a little stilted conversation, occasionally a date (never more than one. It’d be one thing if they stayed put for awhile, but touring 200-plus days a year makes it almost impossible to form a lasting connection. At least, he’s never managed it, and Merle was always happy to raise the specters of his two ex-wives to illustrate the futility of the idea.)

Since Merle died, he’s been adrift, holed up by himself for a couple of months in the house they’d grown up in, sorting through the things they both had in storage there and eventually having the Sallie Ann come out to pick up the lot. Nothing there really but bad memories, and those are already carved into him so bone deep he hardly needs a reminder. 

He’s been back in town for just over a month, helping the band gear up for its rebirth as the new ThunderCrow, feeling his way along and trying to figure out if it’s possible to pick up in his old role again, or whether it’d be smarter to let César and the boys go on their way and make a fresh start himself. Do what he wanted to do. If he had more than the sketchiest notion of what that would be, it might be worth considering. 

It’s led to a lot of sleepless nights, sitting out on the fire escape chain-smoking, and it was at the start of one of those nights that he stopped outside the corner store down the block and saw her for the first time. 

It was her hair that caught his eye. She was sitting at the counter, head down, eyes on a book, and the light from behind her made it look like a dandelion fluff, or maybe a halo. When she raised her head, her crystalline blue eyes focusing somewhere beyond him, missing his silhouette behind the reflection inside, he felt a twinge of-- something. Recognition. 

And nearly every night since, he has wandered down the street and stood in the shadows outside the store, waiting for that moment to happen again, wanting to understand who she is to him. Looking for the right words to invite her into his life, or to encourage her to ask him into hers. Watching until the spin of the clock forces him inside to stand mute and frustrated, tongue-tied, only to flee with the evidence of his weakness in his hand. 

She must think he’s a headcase. She’s probably right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from "You+Me" by Alecia Moore (Pink) and Dallas Greene. It is a perfectly Caryl song, if you're not already familiar with it.
> 
> "the Sallie Ann" = Salvation Army (a religious charity that takes donations of clothing & household items for their resale shops, for those readers not from the US.)


	2. Chapter 2

Late on Sunday afternoon, Carol’s lounging by a backyard pool with a tall tumbler of sweet tea sweating in her hand, blushing like a teenager as she trails off in the middle of describing her awkward customer to her only two real friends. (Her daughter has been spirited away by the neighbor girls to play dolls--she can hear them chattering beyond the grape arbor that separates the two properties.)

“I’m starting to regret even mentioning it,” Carol grumbles. “I’m telling you, he’s not scary. He just seems kind of lost.”

Michonne’s about three glasses of wine in and can’t stop giggling into her hand, and the arch of Andrea’s perfectly shaped brows screams disbelief. She may not be Carol’s attorney anymore, but she still takes her role of advocate to heart, and treats the whole scenario as a personal affront, like she needs to organize a city-wide campaign against Questionable Customers Who Lurk at Closing Time. “I can ask Rick to start doing a drive-by, if you like; you just say the word. That kind of thing’s not normal.”

It’s not that Carol dismisses the idea that this slightly-odd man might actually be unstable, nor is she unaware that bad things happen to people every day, usually when they least expect it. It’s just that it’s taken her this long to start trusting her judgment again, and it would feel like a kind of defeat to casually step back now and let someone else substitute their impression for hers. She spent fifteen years of her life paying for the mistake of soft-pedaling everything her instincts told her about Ed, from the first time he left bruises on her arm by gripping her too tightly, to the way he dismissed her every comment if it didn’t match his own thoughts--she isn’t about to start back down the path of second-guessing herself at every turn.

“You’re lovely,” Carol says, “and I know you’re only being protective, but no. I can take care of myself.”

The two of them exchange a series of looks--frowns and shrugs morphing into sidelong smiles, an entire tacit dialogue, and Carol once again thinks how much she envies them, and how lucky they are to have found each other. Before she knows it, the question of her Mr. Mystery gives way to their favorite topic: resuscitating Carol’s social life.

They mean well enough, but it always comes down to the same thing. “You need to get out. Find some nice normal guy and have a few laughs. It doesn’t have to be anything serious.”

The last thing she’s looking for is a man. In her mind, a man isn’t a casual distraction, but a black hole where she risks losing every bit of identity she’s managed to gather in the months since she walked away from her trainwreck of a marriage. She didn’t know who she was when she first met Ed, and before she knew it she was part of Ed-and-Carol, and then just a component of “Ed’s family,” or at best “Sophia’s mom.” (That part is the only bit she doesn’t weigh with a certain amount of regret.) She’s still trying to figure out this new person who’s making her own way in the world. Inserting someone else into the formula is a recipe for disaster.

“I tell you what, sweetheart,” Andrea proclaims, in her best closing argument voice. “You’re off on Friday, right? Get Teddy to keep Soph for you and come on down to the club. It’s ThunderCrow’s first gig with the new line-up. It’ll be a huge to-do, lots of new people to meet. We’ll put your name in for the VIP section.” (Michonne scoffs loudly at this--the ‘VIP section’ at Velvet’s consists of a roped-off area of a few tables that are reserved for friends the night’s performer has added to the comp list, and the occasional local celebrity. It’s her place, but she doesn’t delude herself into thinking it’s upscale in any way.) “You won’t have to fight for a table, and you can leave whenever you feel like it. Just give it a try, okay? You deserve some time for you.” 

* * * * *

Michonne walks her next door to get Sophia, still grinning from watching the back and forth of Andrea’s relentless fix-it-ing and Carol’s patient refusals, lobbing her friend’s well-intentioned suggestions back with gentle good humor. “She’s just looking out for you, you know. She’s a romantic at heart, and she figures everyone needs what we have.”

Carol sighs with fond resignation. “The sad thing is, Mich, I don’t think she’s wrong. It’s an inspiration to watch the two of you, how you’re like two halves of a whole. I’d love to have that, too, but--someday. Right now I’m still trying to figure out how to be my own half. Or my whole. Oh, you know what I mean.”

“And that doesn’t include hooking up with Johnny Goodtimes for a night yet, I get it. She does too, really. We just want to make sure you and Soph are happy.” For the first time all evening, Michonne’s voice turns serious. “ _Safe_ and happy.”

It’s always easier to confide in Michonne, who won’t turn the moment into a cross-examination. “Can I tell you something kind of strange, without you considering having me pink-slipped? The first time he came in--”

Michonne chuckles. “Okay, so we’re back to your stray again.”

“Sorry,” Carol says, her telltale blush starting to rise again in her face. “Sorry, I’m almost done talking about him, I promise. Anyway, that first night, the first time I heard him speak, it was like - like he sounded _the way he was supposed to sound_. Does that make any sense at all? I knew what his voice would sound like before he ever spoke. Like I knew him somehow, from somewhere.” Saying it out loud, it sounds even more sketchy than it had in her head. But it’s the truth, and it’s part of why she’s so reluctant to consider asking Andrea’s ex to bring law enforcement attention into it.

“So, meant to be, hmm?” It apparently doesn’t faze Michonne one bit, the _woo-woo_ implications of past lives or predestination or whatever you might call it, and she just slings an arm around Carol’s neck and pulls her in for a quick hug. “Honey, I’m glad to see you interested in someone, after all this time, and I won’t insult you by suggesting you not trust your instincts. Just be careful, and don’t forget to call us if you need us.”

* * * * *

Rehearsals have smoothed out as Glenn’s finally figuring out his place in the pecking order, and he and César and Shump have all learned to read each other’s cues. Axel’s the most easy-going guy you’ll ever meet, so no drama from his spot behind the drum kit - he’s just happy to have a steady gig again. Milton keeps his head down like always and listens to his boards. Equipment’s been checked over, sent out for servicing if it needed it. Old Man Greene’s had Merle’s guitar in the shop - not that anyone else is going to play it, but they’ve all decided Ginger should be on stage with them, at least this first night back.

Nevertheless, Daryl hasn’t felt right about any of it since Merle died. Out of politeness, César gave it a month’s grace before he came to Daryl and asked him how he would feel if they went on as before, same name, but brought someone new in as lead. That thought was like a slap in the face, someone else fronting the band, but hell, he’s just crew, not even properly a member, so how could he object? (Part of him knows that’s not true. It would have been him and Merle up there all along if it didn’t freeze his insides solid to stand up in front of a bunch of strangers who were waiting for him to fuck up. No matter how much he wanted it, it never was him, and now it’ll never be, but he still does have some say in what happens next.)

The new kid’s a pistol, though--scrawny little Asian guy who took one look at Daryl and Martinez when he came in to audition and went so pale Daryl thought he was gonna piss himself or hurl--but get him in front of a microphone with that black Stratocaster and he turns into some kind of rock god, wailing on the whammy bar like he’s Stevie Ray reborn. Tell the truth, Daryl’s kinda tickled about the kid, in a purely malicious, juvenile way, but he keeps that to himself. Merle was bad enough about César and Shumpert; he’d straight-up shit himself if he knew his replacement was Chinese. No-- Korean, Daryl reminds himself.

It’s good, though, if they expect to ever transform people’s view of ThunderCrow as just being Merle’s backup outfit. Glenn couldn’t be more different from Merle if someone had picked him out of a catalog. Merle was a peacock in his prime, before the cancer in his gut hollowed him out and turned him into a walking dead man--big barrel chest stretching a black tank shirt, humping Ginger’s sunburst like she was flesh instead of alder wood, strutting the stage with that twinkle and leer that had women of all ages moony-eyed over him and apt to toss their undies at his feet, with or without any encouragement on Merle’s part. Glenn, on the other hand--he’s in it for the sheer joy of the music. Daryl remembers when Merle used to be like that too, before he got so taken with his own press and the coke that he couldn’t even remember why they started it in the first place. Maybe the fresh start is the best thing if the band’s going to survive.

The dreadlocked woman who runs Velvet’s opens the door and catches Daryl’s eye, signaling over the wall of wailing guitar that she’s coming through. Behind her is a familiar head of white hair, and Daryl jumps down from where he’s been leaning against one of the stacks to meet the old man and retrieve the last bit of Merle he has left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _pink-slipped_ = involuntarily committed to a mental health facility
> 
>  _whammy bar_ = a lever attached by the bridge or tailpiece of an electric guitar that can be depressed to bend the strings, changing the tone to produce different effects.
> 
>  _Stevie Ray_ = Stevie Ray Vaughan, American blues rock guitar legend
> 
> \----------------------------------------
> 
> I couldn't resist populating the band with a bunch of familiar faces, not to mention Carol's best friends, and I'm not done yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brief mention of possible sexual assault

Hershel carries Ginger tenderly, cradling her in his arms like a beloved child, and hands her over to Daryl with reverence and a watery smile, laying a hand on the flat face of her case as if saying goodbye. It occurs to Daryl that it may be the last time the old man will see her, and it touches him to think the moment moves the man this much, or maybe it’s just part of the work Greene does, so intimately familiar with the bodies of the instruments that they’re almost as much personalities to him as those who pull the music from them. Daryl’s gotten a taste of that himself, spending time in the old man’s workshop, and he can see the attraction. Inanimate objects are so much easier than people.

Neither of them is much for unnecessary talk, so they just stand in the back, soaking up the sounds of Glenn _slaying_ “Pride and Joy,” Martinez standing hipshot and thunking out the shuffle of the bass line with a sloppy grin on his face. Daryl can’t help but make mental notes about the placement of César’s back-up bass, and to check in with Glenn to be sure he’s happy with the balance in his monitor. It’s all down to the details at this point. 

Greene sighs and says appreciatively, “Sounding tight,” and offers Daryl a grin tinged with commiseration. The unspoken “even without Merle” hits Daryl like a suckerpunch as he realizes he’s barely thought of his brother since they arrived for soundcheck, when you would have expected Merle’s ghost to have been there like a shadow in every corner. _So this is what it feels like to move on._

It takes him a few seconds to get his breath back. The old man narrows his eyes, gauging Daryl’s distraction; points his chin toward the side exit and says, “Walk with me a minute.” Daryl’s feet are moving before he can even think about it. 

Outside the sun’s already behind the trees, and Daryl lights up a smoke, leaning back against the side of the building and waiting for Hershel to get around to what’s brought them out here.

“This still where your head is at?” 

They have known each other too long and well for Daryl to claim ignorance, but he doesn’t have a better answer than he did the last time they talked. The best he can offer is honesty. “It’s what I got, ain’t it? I never did anything but this.”

Hershel looks at the ground, digging his hands into his pockets as if he’s got notes for this conversation somewhere in there. “Just because you’ve never done anything else doesn’t mean you can’t strike out in new directions.” He tilts his head back and takes a good long look at Daryl. “Your brother loved you, in his own way, but he kept you hamstrung, son. Never let you loose to know what you wanted for yourself. Now he’s gone, you don’t know how to even go about figuring out what that means.”

He’s not telling Daryl anything new. Nearly thirty years he’s been caught up in Merle’s wake; this is the only life he’s known since he was a teenager. Once, almost a year back, Hershel had told him, _Neither of my girls has the slightest interest in learning what I have to teach. I think you do, and I’d be happy to pass on to you what I know._ The thought of apprenticing to Hershel, learning the man’s craft of making and repairing guitars, had been a revelation. He’d never thought there might be another path open to him. Then Merle had gotten sick and everything else had gone on hold, but the idea’s been in the back of his mind ever since, like a tiny light in a foggy woods. 

“You’re never going to find a better time than right now,” the old man says, “to put your head down and take something for yourself. But you have to want it, and you have to be _here_ to do it. No more of this running off with the band for weeks on end. I’ve seen you with your hands in the wood, and I think you’ve got the feel for it, although we won’t either of us be sure until you’ve given yourself over to it for awhile. So you’ve got a choice to make.” He holds up a hand to forestall Daryl’s reply, saying, “Not tonight. I understand you’ve got obligations still. Just don’t put it off too long, or you might find the choice is made for you.” 

Back inside, the two of them part ways, but not before Hershel promises to be back for the show--first he’s got to clean up a bit, after a long day in the shop, and have dinner with his daughters. 

“You plannin’ on bringing the girls back with you?” Greene’s older daughter, Maggie, has been hanging around the band since she was about 13. She’s always been a tough little thing--all flashing eyes and acid tongue. The younger one, Beth, is quieter and softer, but Daryl’s seen the way her eyes get dreamy listening to the musicians, and he suspects she’ll be the one more likely to get drawn into that life. Both of them are like younger cousins to Daryl, and it’s been awhile since he’s seen either--since before the night six months or so back when Maggie took off with some older guy at a dance club and was found in the alley behind the place, topless and sobbing. Her friends said they didn’t know the man, and maybe he might have slipped her something, but she never would tell what happened, and nothing official ever came of it. 

Hershel’s face darkens for a moment before he answers. “Maybe Bethie. Maggie’s… she hasn’t been going out much lately.” Before Daryl can ask further after the girl, Milton’s motioning to him from the soundboards, and when he turns back the old man’s already halfway to the door.  


* * * * *

  
It’s been a long time since Carol’s spent this much time and thought over preparing for a night out. (It’s been a long time since she’s actually _gone_ out, is perhaps more to the point.) The best part, she thinks, had been the look on Sophia’s face as she perched on the end of the bed, wide-eyed at the sight of her mother flitting from vanity to closet and back, with a laughing Andrea close behind, offering yet another possibility for the night’s outfit.

“This one,” Andrea had insisted, shoving a soft knit top at her and standing impatiently by while Carol swapped the one she was already wearing for the new candidate. “I know you’re not much for frills, but this lettuce-edging gives it some weight and swing--put it on and twirl, you’ll see.” About the only thing Carol got to hold to was her choice of basic black. Fortunately Andrea’s wardrobe had offered a wide variety of options, and yes, the finely knit jersey pullover looked terrific as she spun in front of the full-length mirror. 

When her friend had finally stepped back and let her get a look in the mirror at the final product, she had been shocked at the transformation - her feathery hair a little bit spiky on top, her eyes dark-rimmed and huge, her lips berry-pink and slightly parted, giving her a breathless air. 

Andrea had laughed again at Carol’s stunned expression and draped a silver chain around her neck, matching the dramatic waterfall earrings she’d already made Carol try on. “And the black belt with the conchos,” her friend said emphatically. “You don’t want to disappear in the dark--the silver will make sure you stand out.” Carol was pretty sure she’d prefer to vanish, but Andrea had been so enthused over the opportunity to play dress-up with a real subject, it had felt ungrateful to refuse the fashion advice. 

Now, standing on the walkway in front of Velvet’s, she feels like such a neophyte. Andrea and Michonne have both assured her it’ll be an older crowd, and she loves live music, even though she’s not familiar with the band, but it’s still daunting--her return to night-life after more than a decade of being a virtual prisoner to Ed’s vision of his perfect family. 

Michonne grabs her up at the door, teasing her about being such an early-bird, and sweeps her through the gathering crowd, past the cordon that marks off the restricted-access section. “Just tell Toni what you’re drinking, sweetheart, the first one’s on the house. And _try_ to have a good time!” There’s only time for a quick buss on the cheek before Michonne’s gone again, heading to fend off some apparent complication at the bar. 

Carol’s not the only early arrival--the table to her left is occupied by a couple a decade or so younger who are decked out in stylish clubwear, and to her right sits a tall, dark-haired gentleman roughly her own age, wearing a tweed jacket and jeans and swirling a tumbler of amber liquid on ice. He meets her eyes and smiles, raising his glass in a silent toast, and she can’t help but smile back. It feels good to be out on the town like this--free in a way she hasn’t felt in years.

She snags the waitress and orders the first thing that comes to mind--a margarita, on the rocks. Before she knows it there’s a frosty glass in front of her, and the first mouthful of sweet-sour-salty makes her sigh, bringing back potent memories of footloose days gone by. 

“Looks like you needed that,” a voice says, startling her out of her reverie. It’s the professor, as she’s identified him in her mind, who has moved up from his own table and taken a seat next to her. “Sorry, I should have asked; do you mind if I sit with you for a minute while you wait for your-- ?”

“Oh, please, that’s fine,” Carol stammers, caught off-guard by his smooth manner. “I’m not expecting anyone.” 

His smile grows even broader. “Now, I find that hard to believe,” he persists. “Lovely lady like you all alone of an evening? Someone’s missing out.” 

The first notes of a blues guitar drown out her demurring words, and her companion leans close to say, “I’m Philip, by the way. Philip Blake.” The name sounds familiar, but she can’t quite place it. 

“Carol Peletier,” she offers, feeling some awkward combination of embarrassment and annoyance as he bends to kiss the back of her hand. There’s something off about him, something too calculated and suave--or maybe it’s just that it’s been far too long since anyone tried to charm her, and she’s simply unaccustomed to it. 

Blake says something that’s lost in the music, and Carol has to lean in so he can repeat himself. “Your first time seeing ThunderCrow?” Blake asks loudly. Carol simply nods, starting to foresee the evening as an uncomfortable series of half-heard questions and inevitable misunderstandings. “It’s a big deal, them coming back like this after Dixon died. I’ve been covering them for probably oh, twenty-some years now.” 

Carol remembers now where she’s heard his name before, as she nods again just to be polite: he's the music critic for the _Tribune._ She had hoped he was only killing time until his own friends arrived, but if he’s seeing the show to review it, he’ll probably be right there all evening, and she cringes inwardly at the thought of having to hold up one end of a conversation, rather than being left alone to enjoy the music.

The dance floor is starting to fill up, but she’s still somewhat surprised when Blake rises and holds his hand out to her. “Care to take a spin?” he bellows over the music. 

She hesitates, but remembers Michonne’s last cheerful instruction. She can have a good time, she decides, regardless of her uncertainty about Professor Slick. One dance with the man doesn’t obligate her to anything further. So she takes his hand and allows him to lead her out onto the floor. 

As she begins to move, a figure at the side of the stage catches her eye, and she trips over her own boots (or, rather, Andrea’s) in surprise. It’s her late-night customer, and he’s staring back at her with as much amazement as she knows must be in her own face.


	4. Chapter 4

Daryl’s head hasn’t been in the game all night, not since the old man’s questions opened up the Pandora’s box of his future again, and he’s going to have to apologize to the boys later for all the missteps he’s made. The high E string on Glenn’s Strat blew on the opening number, which could have sent disastrous ripples through the entire night’s performance if the little man hadn’t been such an utter pro; then he’d forgotten to stash extra water bottles by Axel’s kit, earning Daryl a _what-the-fuck_ face from the drummer when he had to duck past his flailing arms to drop them within easy reach. Nothing major, nothing that couldn’t be sorted out quickly, but he’s always prided himself on staying a step ahead and anticipating any needs, and he knows he’s falling short of that mark tonight. 

Finally it looks like everything’s on track and he can take a minute’s breather to enjoy the music. The energy’s intoxicating, and he wishes that, just once, he had the balls to be the one up there with a guitar in his hands, pulling everyone out onto the dance floor.

He’s about to head out back for a quick smoke when a figure beyond the footlights draws his attention--a cloud of silvery hair backlit by the reflection from behind the bar, calling to mind his corner-store angel. He’s been so tied up with work the past several days, he hasn’t had time for what had become his nightly ritual of stopping by to not-talk to her. _Just as well_ , he thinks. Not like she’d miss him, and the last thing he needs now is one more distraction.

He crouches down at the edge of the stage, squinting beneath his hand to block the glare and get a better look as the pompous-looking jackass who’s holding the woman’s arm maneuvers her closer to the stage, and Daryl just about falls over the monitor he’s leaning on, because it _is_ her. 

His elbow clips the amp behind him with an audible thump as he lurches to his feet, and she stumbles as she looks up and spots him. 

All he has time to register before the jackass moves and blocks his view is the genuine smile of recognition that blooms across her face.  


* * * * *

  
“Whoa, careful there, tiger,” Blake says as he catches her by the waist, keeping her upright. His hands linger longer than is strictly necessary, and it’s only polite upbringing that keeps Carol from overtly shrugging him off. Instead she half-turns, forcing him to loosen his grip, and offers him an artificially bright smile of thanks.

“Borrowed boots,” she explains, waggling one of the offending articles in front of her, and the hook of the music turns that gesture into a playful little motion that starts at the knees and travels up through her hips and into her shoulders. It’s magnetic, calling her to move, in a way she hasn’t enjoyed in a long time.

Blake’s caught by surprise for a second, but then he joins right in. He’s as adept on the dance floor as he is at the social niceties, but Carol still gets a disturbing sense of falseness from him, like he’s trying too hard to be perfect. She’d rather he let himself be natural, human, instead of this overly polished product. He’d be more attractive to her if he were a little rougher around the edges, like her stalker-man.

Who at this moment is standing just offstage, less than thirty feet from her, and what on earth is he doing up there? Blake is between her and the band and has managed to plant himself squarely in her line of sight, making her have to side-step him to try to get another look at the man at the edge of the stage. By the time she works her way around to the other side of him, trying not to be obvious that she’s looking for someone, her shadow has turned the other direction and is headed around the back, toward the rear exit.

It’s almost ludicrous how disappointed she feels by his retreat, and she nearly scolds herself aloud for being more intrigued by an elusive mystery than by the real flesh-and-blood man she’s dancing with right this minute. At least her earlier anxiety has dissipated, courtesy of a little tequila and lime and an infectious beat, and she counts that as a win for the evening, allowing herself to get caught up in the music and enjoy the companionship of the mostly-charming Philip Blake.

They stay out on the floor, getting sweated up through three fast-paced numbers before Carol begs off a fourth and makes a beeline for the restroom. On the way she spots Michonne and Andrea and detours by the bar to report in before she goes to freshen up.

“I see you’ve met our media star,” Michonne jokes, but there’s an edge to her voice as she steers Carol into a side hallway where the volume of the music is somewhat dampened. “Watch out for that one,” she advises. “He’s a little full of himself--fancies himself quite the ladies’ man, likes to lay it on a bit thick about who he knows and how much pull he has. Some girls seem to gravitate to that, but frankly, he creeps me out.” 

Andrea joins them and says, “We talking about Blake again? For heaven’s sake keep it down, you don’t want to get on his bad side.” At Carol’s inquiring look she spells it out: “I can’t prove anything, but there have been a couple other clubs lately who’ve had issues with Blake and suddenly wound up with city health inspectors up their backsides. One place got shut down--not that the state of their kitchen didn’t warrant it, but isn't it awfully coincidental that in each case they complained to the _Tribune_ about his behavior and all of a sudden the city’s nosing around?” 

Michonne sighs and waves a hand to dismiss Andrea’s conspiracy theories, but her partner gets a stubborn cast to her jaw and says, “All I’m saying is the man has connections, and Mich should keep her mouth shut if she doesn’t want to end up on the wrong end of them.” 

Carol can’t help but laugh. “Please, I’m not going into business with him, and I’m hardly going to succumb to his irresistible good looks, either,” she chuckles. “He seems pleasant enough, and he’s a heck of a good dancer, but I’m not apt to go home with him, or anyone else for that matter, so you can stop fretting about me. I’m a big girl, remember? Good lord, you two,” she says, sighing. “Just because you’ve not seen me out at night in all the time you’ve known me--” 

She trails off, realizing that she’s just summed up exactly the reason they were so intent on getting her to come to the club in the first place, and she hasn't told them how grateful she is that they pressed her. “Thank you, by the way. This is exactly what I needed, and I’m having a grand time. I haven’t danced like this in years, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.” It won’t be easy, between her work hours and trying to be a good mom to Sophia, but she promises herself that it won’t be another ten years before she finds time to do this again.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s almost enough to make Daryl want to scream. The universe sets him up to run into Whatshername in a more promising setting than over a convenience store counter, and not only is he actually supposed to be working, but she’s with someone else. So what the hell is he supposed to do now; just hang back and stare, like he’s been doing all along, or write the whole thing off to his shit-miserable luck and forget it?

Before he can even begin to figure out the answer to that, he feels a tug on his boot, and looks down to see a head full of blonde hair and a gleeful smile. “Hey, Little Greene! Where’d you come from?” he says, feeling his irritation slip away at the sight of Beth Greene’s excited face.

“Come on down from there and gimme a hug,” the girl demands, bouncing on the toes of her cowboy boots. He jerks his thumb toward the back of the stage and heads for the stairs to meet her. When he arrives at the bottom he’s surprised to see not only Beth and her father, but her older sister Maggie. Maggie smiles faintly and steps up for her own hug as soon as he lets go of Beth. She’s lost weight in the months since he last saw her, and the hollows under her eyes make her look older than her twenty-two years. If he didn’t know better he’d think she’d been seriously ill.

“Long time, sis,” he says, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. “You folks get a table already? We can put you in the VIP, if you like.”

“That’d be kind of you, Daryl,” the old man says, although Maggie smirks and looks over toward the bar with a kind of hunger in her eyes, one Daryl finds all too familiar from years of trying to keep Merle sober.

“I’m getting a drink,” she says, and marches off without an apparent thought to whether anyone else might have wanted to put in an order. Her father’s eyes follow her until she disappears into the crowd. Daryl’s tempted to go after her, but he suspects his presence wouldn’t be welcomed.

“I gotta get back now,” he says regretfully. “Grab yourselves a seat over there, I’ll fix it with Toni.” He looks around one last time for his angel, but she’s moved to another part of the dance floor, or else gone back to her table--either way he doesn’t have time to track her down, and he sighs as he heads backstage again.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------  
The club’s air conditioning is losing the war against the growing crowd, and the overhead fans aren’t helping all that much either. Despite her once-over with a damp towel in the restroom, Carol’s still perspiring as she crosses to her table again. The table Blake originally occupied has been taken by an older man and a blonde girl who doesn’t even look old enough to drive, let alone drink; her erstwhile dance partner is nowhere to be seen. The ice in her drink has almost completely melted, but she downs the diluted contents anyway and contemplates how well her wallet might handle a refill, or if she should just switch to club soda.

“Allow me,” Blake says as he slips into the seat next to her, moving her empty glass aside and replacing it with a fresh drink. “I assumed you’d want another of the same--or perhaps you’d prefer something else…?”

Carol’s first reaction is gratitude that she doesn’t have to make the decision whether or not to stretch her finances to cover a cocktail, followed by a flicker of annoyance at his presumption. She doesn’t want to feel beholden to the man and hopes he doesn’t think buying her a drink entitles him to anything. The chill of the glass in her hands is too much to resist, though, and she raises it to clink against Blake’s own tumbler of bourbon before taking a healthy swig. It’s saltier than she expects, but the cold, sweet liquid tastes and feels so good going down she immediately follows it with a second gulp.

The kick of the tequila hits her in a wave, and she sets the glass down and pushes it away before she forgets herself and takes another mouthful. She has no intention of getting drunk, especially in the company of a man she’s just met.

“Something wrong with your drink?” Blake asks. “We can get you something else, if you like,” and before Carol can even respond he’s looking around for the waitress, which irritates her so much it nearly overwhelms the pleasant little buzz she’s developing.

“It’s fine,” she says, stifling her exasperation. “I don’t want something different, I just don’t want to drink it too quickly.” It’s an aggravating catch-22--she’s enjoying the music and dancing, but she’s beginning to feel like it’s not worth putting up with Blake.

“I’m going back out,” she announces, and Blake stands hastily when she does. “You feel free to stay here and enjoy your drink.” She’s a little shocked at her own bluntness, but she doesn’t bother waiting to see whether he takes the hint. When she hits the floor, he’s still standing by their table with his glass in his hand.

The dance floor is packed with bodies, so she moves toward the stage, where some fans are standing and singing along with the more popular tunes. The band members are soaked with sweat, particularly the wiry dark-haired man playing lead guitar, who is grinning from ear to ear as he belts out the raunchy lyrics. One young woman in particular seems quite taken with the guitarist, standing directly below him and shaking her hips as she sings, _I ain’t askin’ for much, I said, Lord, take me downtown…_

“He’s really good, isn’t he?” the young woman shouts to Carol, waving her beer bottle, and Carol has to agree. She’s no expert, but the band’s energy is captivating, and the lead guitarist seems to feed off of the audience’s enthusiastic response. “I’ve got a friend who’s with the band--think I’ll go backstage when they break and get his number!” The leggy brunette spins away, putting herself at the front of the pack, and Carol can’t help but laugh. Oh, to be that young and energetic again.

The tempo changes to something slow and sexy, and all around the floor couples converge and pair up, their bodies rocking together regardless of their humid surroundings. Carol eases out of their midst and finds an open space off to the side from which she can watch.

She probably drank too much, too quickly, because the alcohol is hitting her harder than she anticipated, but she feels good. Loose, and happy. So good, in fact, that it hardly bothers her when Blake slides up alongside her and says, “Dance with me?”

The music is exhilarating, a slow, sinuous melody, the lead guitar drawing dark, sultry, nasty tones out of his instrument, eyes closed, cradling it close, like a lover. Blake is holding her a little more familiarly than she'd prefer, but there’s something comforting about it, too, like she’s protected, cared for, and she doesn’t have to worry.

For a moment she’s outside her body, watching Philip spin her around the dance floor, pressing himself against her, his hands on her hips, grinding, making her head whirl as her body swivels, caught up in the rhythm.

 _Not right_ , she thinks, _something is not_ \--


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for sexual assault (mostly implied.) Warnings for the fic have been updated.
> 
> Also: I don't usually care for big explanatory _mea culpas_ in A/N, but I have to apologize for nearly abandoning this fic. I got right near the end, freaked out a bit about doing the ending right, and left it midway. There are several more chapters already written, which I will be posting over the next several days, and I'm finally working on the last one. So thanks for sticking around/coming back to read now.

They’re on the last song of the set when he spots her again from his vantage by the amps, only this time she’s all wrapped up in that smug asshole from before. It’s not even a slow number, but the guy’s all over her. She’s apparently been hitting the bar pretty hard, because it looks like about the only thing keeping her upright is his hands.

Any other time, any other person and he wouldn’t give a good goddamn about it. It’s part of the scenery at every show--people getting all liquored up and groping each other on the dance floor, eventually staggering off to the parking lot together--but this time it makes his stomach roil. He doesn’t have a single claim on her, doesn’t even know her _name,_ for god’s sake, but it’s hard to see her like that. He turns away to find something, anything else he can do to keep from having to think about her, and how it’s not his arms around her.

When they break a few minutes later he’s got his hands full, which suits him just fine. Velvet’s isn’t set up with much of a backstage space for the band to gather in, plus it’s “hotter than a stripper’s crotch” inside, as Axel puts it, so they all congregate out back. Daryl’s kept busy running drink orders in between comparing notes with Shump and César about what needs tweaked before they go back on. Glenn’s so high on adrenaline he can’t stop pogoing around the parking lot, hooting with enthusiasm.

A couple of times Daryl catches himself turning to find Merle and tell him something, to point out a section of one tune that he thinks will sound better if they change the arrangement, or to just share a nod and a grin over how well the first set went, and it’s like a knife in his heart all over again, how much he misses his brother. That shit-tempered, self-absorbed, unapologetic prick, and Daryl would cut off his own hand to have him back. Probably a good measure of just how fucked up his head is.

Before he can get too maudlin, Little Greene sneaks up on him and slides her arm through his. He puts up with it, although it’s way too hot for much body contact, even out here. She’s a sweet kid, with a kind of sixth sense about when people are feeling bad, and he’ll tolerate a lot from her he would never allow anyone else.

Hershel’s there, offering congratulations to the boys, and Maggie, too, although Maggie’s attention is about evenly split between the door back into the bar and Glenn’s antics. There’s something about the way she looks at Glenn, though, that has Daryl considering breaking a life-long habit of staying the hell out of other people’s love lives.

“Shoot,” Beth says, letting go of him to dig through her pockets, “I think I left my phone on the table.” Maggie’s a little too quick to offer to retrieve it, and Daryl figures she’ll take the opportunity to grab another shot from the bar before she returns.

But she’s back almost before he has time to turn around, and when he sees her, he knows something’s bad wrong. Her face is waxy-pale, and her eyes are popped wide enough to show the whites all the way around. He reaches for her just as her knees buckle, easing her down to sit on the bumper of César’s Suburban.

Her father and sister are there in seconds, talking urgently over her head and chafing her wrists, but Maggie’s eyes are on Daryl when she starts to speak.

“He’s here,” she whispers, and for one dizzying second he thinks she somehow means Merle. “He--t-t-touched me. He gave me something, and I couldn’t stop him, and now he’s in there with some other girl.” A tear spills down her cheek. “Make him stop, Daryl.”

Like a flash of light he understands she’s talking about that night at the dance club. “Where, sis? Where’d you see him? What’s he look like?” If she can identify him, even so long after the fact, maybe they can still get some justice for her.

Her voice is shaking so badly he can barely make out her words. “S-sports coat. Tall. Dark hair. There’s a hallway off to the side of the stage, I d-don’t know where it leads.” Daryl knows it - there’s an emergency door there that the alarm doesn’t work right on; he’s used it for smoke breaks before.

“Martinez!” he yells, interrupting the story the man’s telling to some redhead. “We got a problem. Go around to the door by the HVAC; if anybody comes out, grab him.” He doesn’t wait around to see what Martinez is going to do, just dives back inside.

The lighting’s bad, but he immediately sees a shape in the hallway: two figures, the taller one pressing the smaller against the wall. He doesn’t hesitate. “Mister, you’re gonna want to back offa her. I don’t think the lady’s enjoying your attentions.”

For a second there’s no response, and he thinks he’s going to have to lay hands on the man to get him to stop whatever he’s doing, but then the man straightens and steps back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“You better have a good reason for interrupting me and my gal, son,” the man drawls, and there’s a hard gleam in his eye that puts Daryl on alert. He matches Maggie’s description, but what’s worse is that Daryl realizes it’s the man he’s seen with his corner store angel all evening. He risks a look over at the woman and his heart falls into the pit of his stomach.

She’s still standing, but it looks like only barely; her clothes are all rucked up, the neck of her top pulled over to expose an ugly purple-red sucker bite at the crux of her shoulder, and her mouth is swollen. It’s the far-away look in her eyes that turns his blood cold, though, and without a thought he turns and plants his fist in the other man’s face, knocking him flat on his back on the concrete floor.

There’s a flurry of voices as he sweeps the woman up in his arms and heads for the exit. No one’s dumb enough to get in his way, not with the rage he knows is written all over his face. He kicks open the door out the back and yells for César, who comes running from the side. The rest of them are still clustered around Maggie behind the Suburban, which has Daryl’s own truck blocked in.

“Gimme your keys, man,” he growls, leaning hard against the side of the truck. “She needs a doctor. Then go pick that dickhead up off the floor and call the cops.” The questions come thick and fast then, and suddenly Hershel’s by his side with the keys, opening the passenger door and helping him get the woman inside.

“Is it him?” Hershel asks, his voice pitched for Daryl’s ears only. “Did he do the same to my girl as he did to this one?”

He can only shrug. “What’s the odds it ain’t? Maggie said it’s him, and,” he nods at the woman now slumped in Martinez’s front seat as he cinches the seat belt around her, “I saw him messing with her. Either way we stopped him doing it to any more.” He closes the passenger door and squeezes Hershel’s shoulder as he heads for the other side. “Better get your girls home now,” he says. “Cops are gonna want to talk to Maggie soon enough, but she’s had enough of a shake-up for tonight.” He suspects he’ll have some things to answer for himself, and he’s not looking forward to spending quality time in an interrogation room. If the cut of the asshole’s clothes are anything to judge by, he might even be looking at assault and battery, but that doesn’t scare him as much as maybe it ought to. He knows he’d do it all again in a heartbeat.


	7. Chapter 7

Daryl’s halfway to the interstate before he realizes he has no idea which way he’s supposed to be going to get to the nearest hospital. The Suburban sways as he pulls sharply into the next parking lot, making his passenger slide bonelessly toward him, held upright only by the strap across her chest. 

He drops his phone twice before he finally gives up and closes his eyes, just breathing for a minute, trying to settle his shaking hands and the panicky hitch in his chest. When he can manage not to fumble the thing, he makes a call to Hershel, who calmly gets him sorted out and pointed toward Grady Memorial.

“Call ahead, tell ‘em to expect us. Tell the cops, too.” He hangs up and looks over at the unconscious woman as he puts the truck back in gear.

She’s breathing, that’s about all he knows for sure. She hasn’t spoken, or even moved much, since he buckled her in. Looking at her in quick snatches as he drives, she’s so much smaller than he remembered. The greenish light from the dash gives her pale face a deathly cast, and he shivers with apprehension. _Come on, girl, wake up so I know you’re all right._

Hershel’s directions are solid, and it’s only ten minutes or so before he’s pulling up at the emergency entrance. An orderly starts to wave him off, but runs back inside when Daryl steps out and yells, “Got a woman here needs help.” The man is back in moments with a second attendant and a wheeled stretcher, and hot on their heels is a nurse with an oxygen mask, so Hershel must have gotten through. By then Daryl’s gotten her out of the truck and gently sets her down on the gurney. She feels so fragile and limp in his arms, it makes his chest ache. But he’s done his best, he’s gotten her here, they’ll take care of her now and she’ll be okay. At least that’s what he tells himself as he trails behind them, into the bustle and noise of the ER.

As they whisk her off into the back, the last thing he hears before the doors swing shut behind the medical team is something about “intubate”, and suddenly he’s not so sure that things are going to work out after all. Then it’s nothing but questions he mostly doesn’t have answers to, and the longer it goes on the more frustrated he gets.

“She was with a guy I think put something in her drink. No, I don’t know what.”

“Yes, we called the cops.”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know.”

“I told you, I don’t _know_ her name.”

Eventually they leave him alone and he stands helpless, looking at the closed doors, until security comes and tells him he needs to move the truck out of the ambulance bay.

Back outside, he can’t decide what to do. By rights he’s got no call to hang around waiting to see what happens now, and he should probably get back to the club, but he feels like someone needs to be there for her, even if she doesn’t know it. He takes the truck down the street a couple of blocks before turning it around and heading back to find a place to park it. As he turns the engine off, there’s a buzzing noise from the other seat, and he reaches over and finds a cell phone that has to be hers. When he answers it there’s a lot of noise and music, and a woman’s voice that asks, “Hey, girl, 'bout time you picked up. Did you call it a night already? You know you left your purse...”

He looks down at the display, which reads “Michonne.” “This ain’t her,” he says cautiously.

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Then, “Who the hell is this?” the voice asks. “Where’s Carol?”

 _Carol._ “This is Daryl Dixon. I’m with your friend at Grady Hospital. Can you get here?”

There’s a burst of voices, and then the woman says, “Jesus, I knew it. Is she okay? That _bastard_. He better hope the cops catch up with him before I do.”

He can hear some more agitated conversation on her end before she comes back on the line. “One of us is coming. Will you be there? Shit, someone needs to call Teddy.” There’s a pause. “Can you-- _Shit_. Wait. Dixon? As in--”

“Yeah,” he says. “That Dixon,” and he hears her blow out a long breath.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice more steady now. “I don’t know what all happened, but thanks for taking care of our girl. And now I need to ask you to do something else for her. Check her phone for ‘Teddy.’ That’s her landlord. He’s got her daughter, and he needs to know he’ll have to keep her tonight. Can you please take care of that? I’d do it, but I don’t have his number in my phone.”

It’ll give him something to do besides hang around in the parking lot and smoke too much, so he agrees. It only takes a few seconds to find “Teddy” in her call log, but Daryl hesitates, trying to figure out how to explain the situation to a complete stranger who’s got no reason to trust him.

The man answers on the second ring. “So, Miss Social Butterfly, you enjoying your night on the town?”

Daryl clears his throat. “Uh, you don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Carol’s--sort of, and--” This is even tougher than he expected. “Michonne, you know her? she asked me to call and tell you Carol’s in the hospital.”

“My god,” Teddy says, his voice sharp with anxiety. “What the hell happened? is she all right?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that question, so he tries to give the guy the nutshell version and leave the details for later. “She got a dosed drink at Velvet’s. I brought her to the hospital. Michonne said you’d have to keep her daughter with you tonight. She’s coming here. That’s all I really know.” He just wants to get off the phone before the guy asks him anything else.

“Okay,” Teddy says. “Thanks. Can you-- will you be there for awhile? Can you call me when they know anything?”

There’s a steel band of tension silently wrapping itself around Daryl’s forehead, and it makes him want to curse and throw the phone across the parking lot. All these people looking to him to carry the ball on this--he can’t remember the last time anyone counted on him for much of anything except to show up and do his job. He just wanted to get her--Carol-- away from that sleaze and have her be safe and be _okay_ \--he’s not sure how that turned into holding vigil outside a hospital and making phone calls and relaying messages about someone he doesn’t actually even know.

He could probably call Michonne back, just give her Teddy’s number, but she’s likely already on her way, and besides--he needs to be there, to know what’s happened to her.

Plus he has Carol’s phone. _Shit_.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I’ll be here. We’ll let you know.”


	8. Chapter 8

Daryl finds a bench under a pergola about halfway between the ER and the pull-through at the main entrance to the hospital. It’s got a sand-filled urn next to it that’s already topped with a forest of cigarette butts, so he figures it’s one place he can sit and smoke and no one’s going to give him the hairy eyeball. Not that there’s anyone else out here, this time of night--he’s alone with the sounds of the traffic and the night birds and the crickets. He could probably have just copped a seat on the wall outside emergency and no one would have said a thing, but then it would have been a constant struggle not to go in and ask after her.

He’s never been much good at doing nothing, like now. Probably why he smokes so much when he’s at loose ends. Killing time while the professionals inside do for her what he couldn’t. He’s got an endless loop playing in his mind of Carol’s expressive face, all the ways she’s looked at him since the night he first stepped into the store--pleasantly neutral, puzzled, exasperated, uncomfortable, hesitantly welcoming, irked… happy. _She was happy to see him tonight. Wasn’t she?_ He doesn’t think he misread that look, and that more than anything nags at him: she has to get better so he can ask her why. Why she smiled when she recognized him at the club.

He’s not going to make it back to Velvet’s before the end of the night, he realizes, so he calls César’s phone and leaves a message, apologizing for leaving them high and dry in the middle of a gig, telling him the location of the hide-a-key to his own truck, asking him to take Ginger home with him. “I’ll get your ride back to you and pick her up tomorrow,” he promises. “You know I wouldn’ta done this if it wasn’t important.” He’s torn between wanting to explain more and wanting to delete the whole thing. He never manages to say what he wants to on these things, even under normal circumstances--but he’s not sure himself why he’s still there, so it’s probably expecting a lot to be able to explain it to anyone else.

Something like an hour after he left, he makes his way back over to the ER. There’s two patrol cars at the curb, and almost the moment he comes through the doors security points him out, saying, “That’s the guy right there.” It’s been years since he last tangled with the cops himself-- more recently his experiences have involved talking Merle out of some jam or another--but he still has to stop himself from hauling ass right back out the door and across the lot to the truck.

“You Dixon?” one of the cops asks. “You brought Miz Peletier in?”

It takes him a second to make the connection. “Didn’t know that was her name, but yeah. How’s she doing?”

The cops--four of them--are all business, and less accustomed to answering questions than asking them. Probably don’t know how she is in any case. The bigger of the two white cops, a beefy redhead with a walrus mustache, whose name tag identifies him as Sgt. A. Ford, eyes him up and down and says, “You the one slugged Blake?”

 _Figures_ , Daryl thinks. Rich guy takes a punch and all of a sudden that’s the most important thing that happened tonight, not that the prick drugged and molested a woman. He shrugs and opens his mouth to answer, but he’s interrupted by a loud voice that says, “I’d advise you not to answer that question, Mr. Dixon.”

He turns in surprise as a familiar-looking blonde woman in denim comes up alongside him. “Given the events of this evening,” she says, putting herself between Daryl and the cops, “you might want to consider consulting an attorney before you make any statement to the police. And since I am an attorney, I’d like to offer my services in this matter.” She smiles slyly up at him, saying, “Especially since you single-handedly rescued my friend Carol from a potential rapist.”

She takes his elbow and steers him away from the police before offering her hand. “Andrea Harrison, attorney at law.”

When he hears her name he finally places where he’s seen her before--she’s one of the owners of Velvet’s. “Uh, sure. Yeah, I guess,” he says, taking her hand. “Thanks.” It’s a wholly unfamiliar position to be in--to have someone other than Merle taking his side, no questions asked. He wonders how much this is going to cost him.

“You can relax your pucker, Counselor,” Ford says. “We wanted to thank Mr. Dixon here for his service this evening. We been keeping an eye on Blake for months, trying to catch him doing just this kind of thing--you bringing Miz Peletier in so quick, we might just have the evidence we need to nail him this time.”

Andrea snorts with amusement. “Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything. I’m still going to recommend you assert your fifth amendment right to remain silent, Mr. Dixon. Once we talk to the prosecutor’s office about immunity in return for your testimony against Blake--”

“Jesus,” Daryl says, his knees going a little rubbery as it hits him that he’s in the clear. “So I ain’t going to jail tonight?” Andrea casts a bird-bright glance over at the big redhead, who shakes his head. “Then I’m going back out to smoke--unless one of you knows anything more about, uh, Miz Carol.”

Andrea’s intense expression softens, and she reaches out and squeezes Daryl’s arm. “Not yet, I’m afraid. Do you want to stick around? I can come find you when we hear anything.”

He can’t take the combined curiosity and sympathy in her gaze. He ducks his head and nods. “Give me your cell number,” she suggests. “I’ll text you when we have any word.”

* * * * *

For the first time ever, he understands why you see people holding their cell phone in their hand, staring at it, or keeping it out next to them so it’s always in sight. It’s kind of a watched-pot thing, though; the closer he keeps an eye on the thing, the slower time moves. He’s just about to stick it back in his pocket and maybe take another walk around the block when it rings.

“Daryl.” It’s Martinez, returning his call, and Daryl’s hard-pressed not to feel a certain resentment at the intrusion. “Thought since you was still at the hospital, you’d want to hear how it went down here after you left.”

By the time César had gone back in after Blake, the man had slipped away into the crowd and was nowhere to be found. The police had issued a BOLO, and a squad had been dispatched to Blake’s home address, but as far as anyone knew he hadn’t been located yet. “I guess he’s been doing this for awhile, but they haven’t had enough to put together charges. There was a cop here who was real, real interested in talking to you--big red-headed fucker with a _mostacho_?--”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Met him already. He’s a peach.”

“One of the other cops said something about Blake messing with his girlfriend like he did with that lady tonight. I’d say you got a fan in law enforcement just now.”

The idea of having a cop’s good opinion makes Daryl feel like laughing for the first time all night. “If that’s what’s keeping me out of lock-up, I’ll take it,” he says.

His phone starts to vibrate. “Gotta go, man. I think this is news about Carol. The lady from tonight. Catch you later. Thanks for covering for me.”

“Anytime, D. Keep us posted.”

The text just says, _come back inside the dr is here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOLO = Be On the Lookout - all-points bulletin to law enforcement


	9. Chapter 9

“ _..ctor Gupta to curtain four, please, Doctor Gupta,_ ” the blonde newscaster says. “Anyone with information regarding Blake’s whereabouts is urged to call Crime Stoppers at 404-577-TIPS, or go online to www.crimestoppersatlanta.org.” The blonde smiles blankly and turns into a large, brown-skinned man in jade-green scrubs who leans across Carol to fiddle with her left hand. It hurts, sharply, and Carol jerks her hand back and shoves her feet against the sheets, trying to wriggle away from the man’s intruding body, her instincts screaming for her to _get out get out get out_.

“Well, hel- _lo_ ,” the man says, stepping back and beaming down at Carol. “Welcome back.” He reaches over her head and says, “Three-A’s awake, could you get Haddad in here?” The room is chilly, and there’s something sticking to her face, pressing around her mouth and partially blocking her vision. Carol raises a shoulder and rubs her cheek against it, but it only shifts over against her nose and then slides back in place when she stops. 

“Here,” the nurse says, “let me get that for you,” and pulls the oxygen mask up and away from Carol’s mouth. The elastic strap that’s been holding it in place yanks on her hair before it slips up the back of her head and off. “Your sats are good, you don’t need that anymore.”

Carol looks down at herself, frowning at the thin cotton covering her chest, and then over to see a clear plastic tube snaking over her forearm and under an X of translucent tape on the back of her hand. She feels stupidly muddled as she holds the arm out in front of her, as though a closer look will make clear what she’s doing in a hospital bed. The big nurse pats her arm, gently pressing it back down to her side. “Let’s leave that in place for right now, shall we? 

“What--” she croaks, her mouth sticky and tasting like the bottom of a garbage can. “What happened?”

A tiny dark-haired woman in a white jacket bustles in, intent on the clipboard in her hand, before she looks up and smiles tiredly at Carol. “Mrs. Peletier? Doctor Haddad. How are you feeling?” 

_Don’t call me that_ , Carol thinks, but she’s too tired to fuss. “Fuzzy,” she says. “How did I--” The earlier parts of the night begin to trickle back in: the music, getting dressed at Andrea’s, talking to Michonne about-- _That man._ A tremor starts in her middle, radiating up her arms into her hands, and a noise forms in her throat that sounds like a dog about to howl. She feels a rush of acid in her esophagus and for a moment wonders if she’s going to vomit.

“Easy, Mrs. Peletier,” the doctor says. “You’re safe. Oscar, could you get Mrs. Peletier some ice chips to suck on, please?” She looks down at the paperwork again. “Here’s what we know: earlier tonight you ingested a small amount of gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, also known as GHB. We’re assuming that was unintentional?” She takes Carol’s shocked silence as confirmation. “It’s commonly used to reduce a person’s resistance to sexual advances, and from what the gentleman told us when he brought you in, that seems to be the case here.” 

_Gentleman?_ Carol’s head is awhirl, trying to make sense of what she’s hearing.

Doctor Haddad rushes on, as though she has a finite amount of time to communicate the details to Carol. “Your friends did a wonderful job, getting you here so promptly; we were able to get you on oxygen support and monitor you through the worst of it. GHB metabolizes rapidly, so it should be completely out of your system in a few more hours. We don’t think you got much in the first place, but the toughest part is that concentrations and dosages vary so widely, it’s hard to anticipate how hard someone will be impacted, and how long the effects will last. We’re going to keep you here for a little while longer, just to be sure you’re in the clear, then they can take you home. We’ll let them come back to see you in just a bit.” She turns away and is beyond the fabric of the curtain before Carol can even form her thanks.

There’s a void in her memory, a terrible dark space she searches like the hollow of a missing tooth under her tongue. She can’t remember leaving the club. She can’t remember anyone bringing her here. All she remembers is… her stalker. _Surely this wasn’t his doing? No._ There was a tweed jacket, and then-- _Nothing._

The nurse is back with a cup of ice, and he raises the head of the bed a little and helps her sit up. “Your clothes are in the bin over here,” he says. “Once Doctor says you’re good to go we can get an aide in here to help you get dressed. If you don’t have someone that can help with that?” 

Carol shrugs and slips a piece of ice into her mouth, grateful for the moisture. “I don’t even know who brought me in,” she says. “Could you possibly ask?”

* * * * *

By the time Daryl gets back inside and finds Andrea, she’s shaking the hand of a small woman with a dark ponytail and a lab coat with a name embroidered on the breast. “Give us just a little bit and someone will come to escort you back to Mrs. Peletier,” the woman is saying. Daryl hangs back until she turns to go. He figures Andrea’s probably gotten the gist of the information.

He’s surprised when the attorney suddenly slumps back into her seat and buries her face in her hands. _It’s gotta be bad, then,_ he thinks. He must have made some noise, because she quickly looks up and takes a deep breath as she recognizes him. Her face is pale enough that it makes him ask, “You okay? Your friend Carol--?”

Andrea nods quickly. “She’s alright. The doctor said they should be ready to discharge her in a few hours. It just--all caught up with me for a second there. I couldn’t imagine having to tell her daughter--I just couldn’t. Her father’s still around, but let’s just say I would fight tooth and nail to keep that girl from going back to him if something happened to Carol.”

The tension he’s been carrying all night slips away the moment she says, “She’s alright.” The rest takes a minute to register with him. _Daughter,_ Daryl thinks. Well, that makes sense, although it’s kind of hard to fit other people into the compartment he’s built around her and the little corner store. First friends, now a child. 

“Thank you, Mr. Dixon,” Andrea is saying now, her hand out again to shake his. “If you hadn’t been there and seen what was happening--I don’t even want to think of what could have happened.” 

“Jesus,” Daryl says, and he can feel the blood start to suffuse his face. “Just did what anybody woulda done, seeing a person in trouble like that.” 

“See, but that’s not true,” Andrea says gently. “In my line of work I see a lot of human nature, and as much as I’d like to think it’s not the case, there are a lot of self-centered people out there who wouldn’t piss on someone who was on fire if it inconvenienced them, or unless there was something in it for them.”

“Yeah, but that’s practicing law,” Daryl says, and nearly swallows his tongue the next second in mortification. She’s going to reconsider her offer to represent him, and then he’ll be up shit crick if it turns out he’s facing charges after all.

To his relief, Andrea just lays back on the couch and laughs so hard, the next time she looks up there are tears in her eyes. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? Not like I didn’t know what I was getting into, I guess. My point, Mr. Dixon, is that you went out of your way, and I’m grateful.”

“Daryl, please,” he says. 

“Auntie Andrea!” A child’s voice cuts through the low-level chatter that fills the waiting area, and Daryl turns just as a compact ball of sandy-haired human hurls itself past him and into Andrea’s arms.

“Oh, Sophia, honey!” Andrea says, the emotion in her voice changing her into a completely different person from the one Daryl’s been talking to. The woman presses a kiss into her hair as the child begins to sob.

“Mommy’s sick--and Teddy said we should wait--but I couldn’t sleep--so I made him bring me--even if we can’t see her,” the little girl wails in between hiccups.

“Your mommy’s going to be just fine,” Andrea murmurs. “We just talked to the doctor, and she’s _fine_ , we’re just waiting for them to say it’s okay for her to go home.” For some reason that makes the girl cry even harder, and Andrea looks helplessly up at Daryl and shrugs.

“Ah, man, am I glad to see you,” a deep voice says, and Andrea smiles at someone over Daryl’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you know I’m not good at lying to her, and once I told her her mom was in the hospital--”

“I know, Teddy,” Andrea says. “She’s an irresistible force when she gets something in her mind to do.” She takes one hand off Sophia’s shoulder and gestures between the two men. “Teddy, I’d like you to meet--”

Daryl’s already half-turned to meet the newcomer, and the sight that greets him--well, it's pretty much of a piece with the rest of the whole bizarre, mixed-up day.


	10. Chapter 10

“T?” The man walks with a heavy limp now, aided by a leg brace and a cane, but it’s unmistakably T-Dog. “Man, how long’s it been?” Daryl asks as he reaches for T’s hand. 

“Hell with a handshake, Deuce,” T--or Teddy, apparently--says, wrapping his big arms around Daryl and lifting him completely off the floor for a moment before he sets him back down, thwacking him soundly on the back. “You are a sight for sore eyes, my friend.” The toothy grin drops off his face and is replaced by a rueful look. “I was sorry to hear about Merle. Meant to get over Newnan way for the service, but-- you know how it goes sometimes. Best laid plans and all.” 

Daryl’s a bit flustered by the enthusiastic greeting, but he shakes his head. “It’s fine, T. I know he was a total prick toward you--wouldn’t really have expected you to show up for his send-off. Decent of you to think of him at all.”

Andrea’s still sitting on the couch with her arms around Sophia, who’s stopped crying and is now staring back and forth between Teddy and Daryl. “Somebody want to clue me in?” Andrea asks, her mouth quirking up in amusement.

Both of the men turn to her and start talking at once. 

“T used to--  
“--back before I--”  
“--best driver we ever--”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Andrea says, waving her hands to interrupt them. “One at a time. Teddy, you first--how do you and ‘Deuce’ know each other?”

Teddy scratches his chin and chuckles to himself. “Wow, must have been, what, ten, twelve years ago now? I drove one of the trucks the summer and fall ThunderCrow did their big national tour, and then they kept bringing me back when they were doing shorter, regional stretches. Deuce and I ended up spending a lot of time together, especially that first year, got pretty tight. He’s a shi-- uh, terrible poker player. Can’t bluff to save his life. I took pity on him and lost sometimes on purpose so I wouldn’t take his whole paycheck from him.”

“Oh, you _lie_ ,” Daryl sneers in mock outrage. “This man cheats at cards, don’t let that face fool you.” 

“He cheats at Scrabble, too,” Sophia says solemnly, and all three of the adults break up laughing, Teddy spluttering indignant protests of innocence.

“Seriously though, T,” Daryl says, once he recovers, “what happened to you? You kinda disappeared off the circuit. I mean,” nodding toward Teddy’s cane, “I can see something happened--”

“Yeah,” Teddy says, knocking the cane against the side of his braced leg, “about six years ago I was in a pretty bad wreck and permanently messed up my leg. No more hauling for me. I’m on union disability now, and I have a couple pieces of property I rent out to make a little extra. How I got to meet this little lady here,” he says, nodding at Sophia. “She and her mom rent the upstairs apartment in my house.”

“I’m looking for the family for Peletier?” a young woman announces to the waiting area. 

“Oh, that’s my mommy!” Sophia squeals, jumping up from the couch and running to the volunteer. “Can I go see her now?” 

“I’m afraid not, sweetie,” the candy striper says uncomfortably. “She’s a little young--” she explains to Andrea. 

“That’s fine,” Andrea says, “we completely understand.” She kneels down next to Sophia, brushing wayward strands of hair from the girl’s forehead. “How about if I go back first and check on her for you? And as soon as I know when they’re letting her go I’ll come back and let you know.”

“I’ll stay here with you, Soph,” Teddy says. “Maybe we can get them to find an old movie on the TV for us, you can lay here and see if you can sleep a little.”

“Mothra?” Sophia says hopefully.

“If we’re lucky, sweetness,” Teddy says, smiling. 

Now that the whole thing is winding down to a close, Daryl’s torn. There’s something in him that doesn’t want to leave until he sees her with his own eyes, but she has her own people here now to get her home safely; there’s no reason for him to stick around. 

“Guess I’ll take off, then,” he says to Andrea, half-hoping she’ll put up at least a little bit of an argument.

“Oh, no,” Andrea says firmly. “I’m sure she’s going to want to thank you personally. I know it’s late, but could you stay for a little longer? Let me go in first to make sure she’s up for it, but then--” She turns to the hospital volunteer. “Can she have more than one visitor at a time? I promise, we won’t overtire her.” 

“I ain’t staying around long,” Daryl says, adding his voice to the argument. He turns back to T. “You’ll still be here, right? We oughta-- I don’t know, trade phone numbers, get together later or something.” The whole coincidence of their unexpected reconnection has the feel of something intended to happen. It’s another reminder that it’s time he started taking hold of the life he wants instead of just letting it happen to him. There aren’t many whose presence he’s as comfortable in as he always was with T, and he hadn’t realized until now how much he had missed the man’s friendship; if he has his way, it won’t slip away again so easily.

“Yeah, man. Write down your cell for me, we’ll make plans,” T says, grinning. “I could use a nice infusion of cash right about now.”

* * * * *

It’s probably a combination of relief at seeing her safe and whole at last, and the disturbing pallor of Carol’s face, nearly matching the pristine white of the pillowcase beneath her cheek, but Andrea finds herself bursting into tears as she pushes past the curtains.

“Oh, now,” Carol says drowsily. “You stop that. I’m fine, honey.” 

“Shit,” Andrea mumbles, sniffling. “I feel so bad, Carol. If we hadn’t ridden you about getting out and having a little fun, you wouldn’t have been there, and that _worm_ wouldn’t have laid his hands on you--” She stops herself dead when Carol shivers and shrinks down under the thin flannel blanket that covers her. “I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say to you, how to make it right.”

“Not your fault,” Carol murmurs. “I walked right into it. I don’t remember it all, but I do know he seemed normal enough, and he looked so clean and well-off, it never even occurred to me that he could want to do something like that to me. I don’t know, maybe it’s just been too long since I was in the dating pool. Is this what it’s like now?”

“God, no, sweetheart,” Andrea says, her heart breaking a little for her friend. “I promise you, most men you’ll meet are not like that at all. Which reminds me, there’s one out in the hallway I’d like to introduce you to, if you’re not too wiped out: he’s the one who got you away from Blake and brought you to the hospital.”

It’s about the last thing she wants right now, Carol thinks, but she feels like it’s the decent thing to do. “Sure,” she says, “I guess that’d be okay. What’s his name?” 

“Daryl Dixon,” Andrea says, “although Teddy was calling him ‘Deuce.’ I don’t know what that’s about, but apparently they know each other from when Teddy belonged to the Teamsters Union? Teddy seemed tickled to see him, though. I guess they’re old friends. Give me just a minute, I’ll get him.”

The next few minutes are about as close to hallucinatory as Carol has ever experienced, or ever wants to. Andrea pushes back the curtain, and the man standing there chewing on his thumbnail, a hesitant expression in his eyes, is Mr. Mysterioso himself, her late-night customer. 

“Oh,” she says, dumbfounded. “ _Oh, my_ ,” and she starts to giggle uncontrollably, pressing her hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter, never taking her eyes off Daryl. 

Clearly her reaction is the last thing Andrea expected, and she looks from one to the other in complete bafflement. “I don’t get it,” she says. “What did I miss here?” Daryl’s apparently startled as well at first, but he begins to grin as Carol turns pink with the effort of restraining her hilarity.

Finally Carol puts her hand out with a dazzling smile and says, “Hi, there. Daryl, is it? It’s nice to finally meet you.” He steps closer to the bed and takes it, holding her fingers loosely in his, and Andrea is shocked by the electric connection of their eyes on each other. 

“Hi,” he says softly. “You feeling okay?” 

Carol brings her other hand over to cover his, and nods. “I’ll be just fine, and I know I have you to thank for that. What were you doing, watching over me?” 

He blushes furiously and shakes his head. “Just got lucky,” he says. 

Andrea is utterly bewildered by the way the two of them are acting, and if there’s one thing she can’t stand, it’s being out of the informational loop. “Wait,” she says, “what’s going on?” 

Carol finally tears her eyes away from Daryl’s and says, “Andrea, I’d like you to meet my stalker.”


	11. Chapter 11

Andrea’s not sure if Carol’s still under the influence of the GHB, or just confused by the night’s events. “Oh, no, honey,” she says, “this is _Daryl_. He’s the one who brought you in here tonight? He roadies for ThunderCrow.”

But the amusement in Carol’s face suggests she’s fully coherent. “Yes,” she says, slowly and patiently, “and he’s also the one who’s been hanging around the store at closing time for weeks and weeks, although I haven’t seen much of him these last few days. What _was_ that all about, anyway?” she asks Daryl, squeezing the hand she still seems to be holding onto like a lifeline.

Or maybe it’s more like an anchor to keep him grounded, because Andrea can’t remember when she’s seen a grown man more on the verge of flight than Daryl is at this moment. His free hand plucks at the sheet beside Carol’s leg as he shrugs and mumbles, “I’uhnoh,” peering at Carol through the fringe hanging in his eyes.

There’s something going on here that’s terribly intimate even in its silence, almost making Andrea feel as if she’s intruding on Holy Confession. “Look, I’m going to-- take a little stroll over to the vending machines,” she says smoothly, “see if I can find some caffeine to keep me going a while longer. Can I get either of you something?”

On her way out she shoves the lone bedside chair behind Daryl’s knees and pulls the curtain shut as he sinks into it, with Carol’s hand still in his.

* * * * *

_My knight in scuffed leather_ , Carol thinks, smiling to herself. His palm is callused, and the battered knuckles look like he’s seen more than a few fistfights, but it’s strangely comforting to be holding his hand.

“What’s funny?” Daryl asks immediately.

“I’d have to say it’s more a matter of what isn’t,” she says, turning half on her side so she can get a better look at his face. “This whole night is going right up there at the top of my ‘weirdest experiences ever’ list, believe me.” He shakes his head and coughs out a tiny almost-laugh, like he’s not so sure any of it qualifies as “funny” in his book. “I think it ranks just ahead of ‘there’s a nice-looking guy who keeps hanging around my workplace, and I’m not sure if it’s me or our fine selection of nudie magazines.’”

She says it hoping to make him laugh, but instead gets a full-body twitch that’s both hilarious and somehow heartbreaking. His entire posture has gone rigid with tension, and if friction could be generated by the pressure of his gaze against the unbroken stretch of cotton blanket on the bed the whole thing would be in danger of combusting.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just--oh, be honest with me, were you _ever_ going to talk to me?” 

For as little as he speaks, his body language communicates a wealth of uneasy subtleties. “Probably not,” he admits. “You, you’re--” and he sputters to a stop again, his shoulders rising as if to fend off her imagined outrage.

“I’m--what? scary? intimidating? hideous?” she asks, baring her teeth at him like fangs. _You’re getting my best material here, Stalker, the least you could do is smile._

“Beautiful,” he finally says, addressing a spot somewhere between them. “Normal. Figured probably happily married, and why the hell would you look at a guy like me even if you wasn’t?”

The way his voice wavers on the word “beautiful” gives her goosebumps. She doesn’t think anyone has ever said it before and meant it for her. “Oh, honey,” she says, “when you get it wrong you don’t do it by halves, do you? I’m a _mess_. I’m a single mom on the wrong side of forty, my ex-husband was a complete bastard on the best of days, and I’ve never been _anyone’s_ idea of a beauty.”

His words are so soft she almost misses them behind the wild beating of her heart, but as he finally raises his eyes to meet hers, they’re shining. “Y’are mine.”

* * * * *

Andrea takes her time coming back, going deliberately off-track and wandering through the hospital’s mostly-empty hallways, despite there being a bank of vending machines immediately at hand off the ER waiting room. Eventually she retraces her steps and spends several more minutes feeding her supply of change into the snack machines, choosing the least toxic-looking options just in case Sophia happens to be awake and looking for a treat.

Soph is out cold, using Teddy’s lap as a pillow, and Andrea can’t help but smile at the picture the two of them make. “You’re a good guy, you know that, Teddy?”

“Don’t let that get around,” Teddy says, chuckling softly, “you’ll ruin my rep.” He glances in the direction of the treatment rooms and narrows his eyes at Andrea. “You leave him back there with her? Don’t get me wrong, he’s no danger to her, but she don’t know him. You know how twitchy she was with me at first. She’s come a long way, but after tonight-- she’s apt to be skittish again. I don’t want to see her get freaked out.”

“She’s fine,” Andrea smiles. “Better than fine, actually,” and clues him in on Daryl’s strange history with Carol. “Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it, Teddy, and you know I’ve seen a lot. The best and worst of people. You’d think the two of them were long-lost--” She presses her fingers into the hollows of her brows and across the lids, like she can squeeze the exhaustion back inside. “--something. I don’t know. I’m too tired to figure it out. All I know is how they looked at each other.”

The sofa is entirely too low and soft; once she’s gotten herself settled next to Teddy she finds herself tilting over to lean against his comfortable bulk, resting her head on his shoulder. She’s just weighing her options--whether to close her eyes and take a nap, versus how much effort is going to be required to climb out of the couch and make her way back to where she left Carol--when Daryl reappears. “They’re ready to kick her loose,” he says. “She needs a hand gettin’--you know.” He gestures down the front of his body. “Told her I’d come get you.”

“Sure you couldn’t have taken care of that, ‘Deuce’?” Andrea teases, reaching a hand out so Daryl can help her up. His face turns a spectacular crimson, just as she suspected it would. “You’re right, Teddy,” she says, nudging the man next to her, “he’s awfully fun to wind up. And you _really_ need to finish telling me where that nickname came from.”

“Hey, don’t drag me into it,” Teddy protests. “I swear, man, I didn’t say nothin’ to her.”

They’ve been keeping their voices low to avoid waking Sophia, but it’s probably inevitable when she stirs, knuckling the sand out of her eyes and frowning up at them. “Where’s my mom?” she asks, her lower lip starting to quiver as she sits up and looks around at the unfamiliar furniture. “I want my mom.”

Andrea is quick to reassure her. “I was _just_ about to go help her get dressed so she can get out of this place, sweetie, what do you think of that? You can stay here a few minutes more, can’t you? and then we’ll all go home, and you can sleep in your own bed.” For the moment that seems to do the trick, and Andrea takes advantage of the reprieve and heads off to help Carol.

“So what’s the plan for you now, man?” Teddy asks. “ThunderCrow gonna tour with the new lineup? Back on the road again?”

The question hits Daryl like bad news, making his gut curdle. Not from the aggravation of having everything up in the air, but from the thought of going on like before, endless shows in endless bars that all smell the same, endless cheap motels and bad food, nowhere to rest his head that he truly feels at home. And just like that, Daryl knows the answer.

“Not sure what they’re looking to do, T, but I don’t think I’m gonna be joining them. Hershel Greene’s asked me to come in with him, learn to fix guitars like he does, and I think I’m gonna take him up on it. Set some roots for a change.” It sounds so right, saying it like that, he can’t believe he ever wrestled with the idea.

Sophia’s still cuddled under Teddy’s arm, but she’s been eyeing Daryl as the two men talk, plainly curious about him. Finally she leans forward and blurts out, “Are you my mommy’s boyfriend?”

Daryl nearly chokes in surprise, and Teddy bursts into delighted laughter, which earns them a glare from the admissions nurse. “Nah, I’m just--” He has no idea what to call it. “A friend, I guess.”

“He’s an old friend of mine, Soph. He just met your mom and was helping her out when she wasn’t feeling good,” Teddy says.

“Well, if he’s your friend, and he’s Mommy’s friend, then why doesn’t he have Spaghetti Tuesday with us?” The little girl is clearly of the opinion that any friend of both Teddy’s and her mother’s should already be part of their weekly tradition, and they’ve been holding out on her.

Daryl’s obviously struggling to come up with a polite response to the unexpected invitation--if he can even call it that--and Teddy takes pity on him. “That’s an excellent point, young lady. Now, Daryl here’s been out of town a good deal before now, but he was just telling me how he’s gonna be around more often, and I think he should come to dinner. You like spaghetti, don’t you, Deuce?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end of this part of the story. Thanks to everyone who supported and encouraged and enjoyed this little journey with me.

On Wednesday, Daryl goes to dinner at Teddy’s. (No one bothers to explain why they call it ‘Spaghetti _Tuesday_ ’, but he’s not one to nitpick when there’s home-cooked food involved.) Andrea and her partner Michonne are part of the regular crew--apparently they’re like girlfriend-girlfriend, not just that they own the bar together? So he guesses he hangs out with gay people now. Merle would have a field day giving him shit over that, wouldn’t he? Or try to hit on them. Probably both.

Dinner prep’s a boisterous group undertaking, filling Teddy's substantial kitchen with laughter and smack-talk (PG-rated for tender ears) and the occasional disaster as someone zigs when they should have zagged and the tomatoes intended for the salad end up on the floor. That first night he's assigned to garlic bread duty, taking a seat on the far side of the breakfast bar and applying the seasoned butter and cheese under Sophia's watchful eye before someone else's hands whisk it away to the oven. Task accomplished, he just sits and watches Carol until Andrea catches the direction of his gaze and deliberately bumps him with her hip on her way past, nearly tilting him off his barstool and making him flail for a second to recover his balance.

“Smooth, Stalker,” Andrea murmurs, reaching around him to swap his empty for a fresh bottle of beer.

“What?” he asks, but she just looks at him with one eyebrow up until he can feel the red creeping over his ears. _So_ busted, but he doesn’t even care. Sue him, he likes looking at the woman. Anything more than that, he’s working up to it.

The food’s good--not fancy, but hearty and plentiful. The conversation is lively, loudly opinionated, and full of what he can only think of as _love._ These people love each other as fiercely as if they were blood. They look out for each other, better even than Merle did for him when they were kids, and a damn sight better than his brother had in his later years. Sophia is cuddled and lectured in pretty much equal measure, as far as he can see, by her adopted aunts and uncle as much as by her own mother, but she’s no spoiled brat: she’s a bright, cheerful little girl surrounded by people who would do anything for her.

He must have gotten sucked into some fakely perfect family television show. The idea that people actually live like this blows his mind wide open, eclipsed only by the wonder that somehow, he gets to be a part of it. A welcome part, if he can believe the hugs and handshakes when it’s time for him to go.

Carol walks him out to the porch, closing the door against the bright lamplight within, and for the first time since she left the hospital they’re alone.

“So, what did you think? Not as horrible as you expected?” She’s smiling at him with that little glimmer she gets in her eye. He’s not used to that, how she teases, but he thinks he could get there.

“It was nice,” he says. “I mostly eat alone, so it’s different.”

“Good different, though,” she says, like she already knows. “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have them. They keep me from going nutty.” She’s standing close to him, and he can smell the shampoo she uses, some kind of flowery thing that suits her. He lights a cigarette so he doesn’t just lean right down and stick his nose in her hair or something crazy like that. “They like you, you know?” She gives him a look, a serious-but-kidding-but-really-serious-underneath look and says, “So you better not be thinking you’re getting away from us anytime soon. Besides, you made a promise to my daughter. Sophia’s going to be a real pain in your you-know-where until you come through on that guitar.”

“I know,” he says. “Be awhile before I know enough, but I’m good for it. Just so she knows to be patient.”

“She will be; she’s good like that.” Carol says. “Her mama, on the other hand--”

He’s turning his head to look at her just as she rises on tip-toe, and before he can think his arm is around her back and he’s kissing her. Not all hot and heavy, but nice, soft, the pressure of her lips, her breath against his skin, and her mouth turning up under his in a sly smile that becomes visible as she leans back from him.

“Sorry for the ambush,” she says, grinning. “I’ve just wanted to do that since about the first night I saw you in the store, and I didn’t want to wait for you to make your move.” She turns toward the door, her hand trailing down the front of his vest and over his wrist as she goes. “Come back next Wednesday. You did so good tonight, we might promote you to salads.”

He doesn’t remember how he even gets home from there, but he’s still smiling, and the taste of her is still on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, as it turns out, the delightful [Meeshiefeet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/meeshiefeet/pseuds/meeshiefeet) is allied with the forces of evil, there is a good possibility that there will be a sequel to this, in which we find out what happened to Philip Blake, Daryl takes on an apprenticeship, and Caryl gets cozy and/or busy.
> 
> * * * * *
> 
> A little information about GHB: 
> 
> The salt on the rim of a margarita makes the drink an ideal candidate to disguise GHB’s salty, chemical-y taste.
> 
> In addition to its notorious use in acquaintance rape, people do take GHB recreationally. Initial effects are like being drunk: inebriation, reduced inhibitions, elevated mood. Putting it in an alcoholic drink masks the first signs as being from the alcohol. Onset takes roughly 10-15 minutes from ingestion (like alcohol, onset can depend on what else is in your stomach) and continues to increase for 30-60 minutes, lasting approximately 1.5-3 hours with no additional intake. At higher doses, effects may include dizziness, difficulty focusing the eyes, slurred speech, nausea, grogginess. At overdose level, the person may be extremely dizzy/disoriented, slip in and out of consciousness, vomit, and most dangerous of all, have depressed respiration (breathing.) Putting a GHB overdose victim flat on their back helps them breathe, but can put them in danger of aspirating vomitus. 
> 
> [For dramatic purposes I exaggerated the timeline/effects somewhat in this story.]
> 
> With home “brewing” of GHB, the concentration/dosage is extremely hard to gauge, and the margin between a recreational dose and a potentially lethal overdose can be very narrow. If someone may have been dosed against their will, medical attention should be sought immediately, not only for this reason but because GHB metabolizes rapidly and may be impossible to detect in a test of urine collected 24 hours after ingestion (some sources say 12 hours, and 4 hours for blood tests) so there’s a short window for identifying the drug involved. 
> 
> Reactions and patterns of response can vary widely. If you suspect someone has been dosed, or even if they are a recreational user who may have taken too much, get them medical attention ASAP.
> 
> * * * * *
> 
> I had some issues with writing parts of this one, and I suspect some of my readers might as well, so I’d like to explain some of my thinking. 1) I think Carol was naive in her assessment of as-yet-unknown Daryl as harmless. In this case she was right, but her unwillingness to throw the guy out of the store after weeks of lurking and staring at her? I would be horrified and deeply concerned if a friend of mine reacted so casually to that kind of behavior. 2) I wanted to portray her as somewhat ill-equipped as she goes out for the first time in more than 10 years. She’s of an older generation where she and her girlfriends (in the days pre-Ed) probably never even thought about having to watch their drinks, not to accept a drink someone else brings you, etc. 3) Michonne and Andrea both had heard things about Blake’s unspecified “behavior” that had made him persona non grata with other clubs, but for a number of (mostly pretty valid, if shortsighted) reasons downplayed the implications. They might have thought they had adequately warned Carol about him, but underneath it all I don’t think they really believed he was as dangerous as he turned out to be. 


End file.
